The Proof House (15 page)

Bardas, who had no sack, pulled his collar round his neck. ‘I’d say this is rain all right,’ he said.

The courier shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Well, yes, obviously it’s
rain
; but it’s not the sort of rain you get here when it’s raining. Comes down in sheets, it does; before you know it, the coach is full of water. Can’t see ten yards in front of your nose. This is just - well, ordinary rain, like we used to have in Colleon.’

Bardas shivered. The ordinary rain was running down his forehead into his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is rain like we used to get it in the Mesoge; about a third of the year, all spring and a bit of the late autumn. Bloody good weather for staying indoors in.’

‘We’re here,’ the courier said. ‘Ap’ Calick. Where you’re headed, remember?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Sorry.’ Bardas blinked rain out of his eyes, but all he could see was the vague, rain-blurred shape of a big, square, grey building in the valley below the hill they’d just come round. ‘So that’s Ap’ Calick?’ he said, for no real reason.

‘That?’ The courier laughed. ‘Gods, no. Ap’ Calick proper’s another half-day on up the road. That’s Ap’ Calick armoury. Quite different.’

‘Ah.’ Bardas let go of his collar just long enough to draw a sodden cuff across his eyes. It didn’t make much difference to the way it looked; a dim grey block, precisely square. ‘That’s all right, then,’ he said.

‘Dismal bloody place,’ the courier went on. ‘Mate of mine was posted there once; nothing there, he told me. Nothing to do; miserable little canteen where they water the booze. No women except for the godawful specimens who make the chain-mail, they’ve got hands like farriers’ rasps, and talk about strong—’ He shuddered, tilting rain out of a fold in his sack on to Bardas’ knee. ‘And the dust,’ he went on, ‘the dust’s the real killer. A month in there, you’ll be spitting up enough grit to polish a breastplate. No wonder they all die.’

‘You don’t say,’ Bardas replied.

‘That’s if the noise doesn’t drive you crazy first,’ the courier went on. ‘Three shifts a day, see,
clack, clack, clack
all the damn time. If you’re really lucky, you’ll go deaf. The heat’s another killer,’ the courier continued. ‘I mean to say, typical provincial office, builds the biggest forge in the west in the middle of a bloody desert. You get blokes going crazy because they drink the brine.’

‘The what?’

‘Brine,’ the courier repeated. ‘Salt water, for tempering in. They get so thirsty in there on a hot day, they drink the salt water out of the tempering vats and go crazy and die. Three or four of them, every year. They know it’ll kill them, but after a bit they just don’t care.’

Bardas decided it was time to change the subject. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘About tempering in salt water.’

The courier shook his head. ‘Temper in all sorts of things,’ he said, ‘depending on what they’re making. Salt water, oil, lard, plain water; molten lead they use for some things; or is that annealing? Can’t remember. My mate didn’t talk about it much. Made him depressed even thinking about the place.’

‘Is that so?’ Bardas said.

A few hundred yards further on, Bardas could hear the noise. It was just as the courier had said, the clack-clacking of countless hammers, all out of sync, like massive raindrops on a slate roof. ‘Worse inside,’ the courier informed him. ‘Big rooms, see; the sound bounces off the walls and the ceiling. You can always tell a man who’s worked in one of these places, he doesn’t talk, he shouts.’

Bardas shrugged. ‘I don’t mind a bit of noise,’ he said. ‘Where I was before, it was always a bit too quiet for my liking.’

The courier was quiet for a while. Then, ‘Another thing that happens to them,’ he went on, ‘they lose the use of their left hands - the hand you hold the work in, right? All that constant shock and jarring, it kills the nerves. It gets so you can’t hold anything. Once that happens, they ship ’em out to the desert forts. Be kinder to knock ’em on the head, really.’

The courier dropped him off at the gate (there was only one; high, nail-studded double oak doors, strong enough for a city), turned round and vanished into the rain. Bardas banged on the door with his fist and waited, until he could feel rainwater seeping down the insides of his boots.

‘Name.’ A panel had opened in the door while he’d been looking the other way. ‘Yes, you. Name.’

‘Bardas Loredan. You should be . . .’

A sally-port in the main door swung open. ‘Adjutant’s expecting you,’ said a voice from under a deep, sodden hood. ‘Across the courtyard, third staircase from the right, fourth floor, left at the head of the stairs then right, sixth left, fourth door down on the left. Ask if you get lost.’

The hood darted away into a niche in the gatehouse wall, and Bardas, who was in no mood to stand about, scuttled across the courtyard, which had been baked earth but was now a thick grey mud the consistency of mortar; it sucked at his boots as he crossed it. In passing he noticed a series of massive timber A-frames, in pairs, linked by crossbars; they could have been anything from component parts of siege engines to production-line gibbets. There was nobody else to be seen, and all the windows overlooking the yard were shuttered.

The building on the other side of the yard was a half-hearted attempt at a tower; it was square, ten storeys tall, with a dozen staircases opening on to the yard. On either side of it were galleries, shuttered windows and no doors, like the galleries that ran along the other three sides; two storeys, or else one highceilinged storey and a loft. He counted off three from the right and started to climb the tightly curled spiral staircase. It was dark, slippery underfoot (how the rain was managing to get through he couldn’t see), the pitch of the stairs was disconcertingly steep and there was no rail or rope to steady himself by; not the sort of stairs you’d want to meet anybody on, unless you relished the prospect of walking backwards down to the floor below. There was a certain similarity to the mines that wasn’t lost on him (except, of course, that about the only way you couldn’t die in the mines was by falling backwards down a flight of stairs).

Left, right, sixth left, fourth door left; he caught himself mumbling it under his breath like some protective spell, such as the hero in a fairy tale uses to get past the gatekeepers of the kingdom of the dead. He chided himself for thinking negative thoughts:
Don’t be so silly
, he told himself,
it’ll probably turn out to be a whole lot of fun once you’re settled.

There were lights in the corridors; little oil-lamps that flickered shyly in deep alcoves in the walls and provided almost enough light to see the way by. It was more reliable, Bardas found, to use the sappers’ method of closing your eyes and finding a turn by waiting for the tickle of a draught on your face.
Just one of the many useful skills I’ve learned since I’ve been in the army,
he reflected, ducking just in time to avoid an invisible low doorframe.

There was a problem with finding the fourth door on the left: there were only three doors. He knocked on the third door, and waited. Just when he’d reached the conclusion that he’d come the wrong way after all, the door opened and he found himself looking up at a very tall, broad-shouldered, rather round-faced man, a Son of Heaven with wispy white hair on either side of a bald head and a little tuft of beard just under the curl of his lower lip.

‘Sergeant Loredan,’ the man said. ‘Come in. I’m Asman Ila.’

The name was completely unfamiliar, but Bardas didn’t mind that. He followed the man into a narrow, dark room, no wider than the corridor he’d just left. What light there was came from four tiny oil-lamps on a spindly iron frame that stood about as tall as his shoulder; there was a window at the far end of the room, but it was shuttered and barred from the inside. Three of the walls were bare; on the fourth, above the bare plank desk, hung what was probably a breathtakingly lovely Colleon tapestry, if only there’d been enough light to see the colours.

‘From the spoils of Chorazen,’ the man said (Bardas had never heard of Chorazen before). ‘My grandfather commanded the sixth battalion. Daylight fades it, so I keep the shutter closed.’

‘Ah,’ Bardas said, trying to sound as if he’d just been given a full explanation. ‘Reporting for duty,’ he added.

Asman Ila indicated a small three-legged stool with a delicate gesture. It tipped alarmingly when Bardas sat on it; one leg was markedly shorter than the others. ‘From Ap’ Seudel,’ said Asman Ila, ‘before the fire. My first posting. The local rosewood, with a charming niello inlay. Welcome to Ap’ Calick.’

‘Thank you,’ Bardas said.

Asman Ila sat down - his chair looked even more uncomfortable than the stool, but if there was a provenance to it, Bardas didn’t get to hear it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re the hero of Ap’ Escatoy. A remarkable achievement, by all accounts.’

‘Thank you.’

‘A fascinating city,’ Asman Ila went on. ‘I spent some time there - what, thirty years ago. I’ll never forget the quite outstanding carved ivory furniture in the viceroy’s state apartments - quite distinctive, nothing remotely like it anywhere else in the world, though of course they try to copy it in Ilvan. It’s easy enough to tell, though; you can almost feel the clumsiness as soon as you walk into the room. A cousin of mine in the provincial office has promised me one of the triptych audience screens from the main reception chamber; too much to hope for the pair, of course.’

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Bardas could make out the shapes of chairs, chests, book-boxes, lecterns, stools and any number of other small, portable items; they were stacked on top of each other up against the walls, covered in dull grey sheets. ‘My duties,’ Bardas prompted him hopefully, but Asman Ila appeared to have forgotten that he was there.

‘Nearly everything in this room,’ he said eventually, ‘comes from fallen cities, places I or my ancestors captured in war. Unique, I should imagine, some of them; the lamp-stand, for example. I believe it’s the only piece of Cnerian wrought iron left in existence. The city is gone, but part of its heritage lives on, here with me. Now then, your duties. It’s all perfectly straightforward. ’

Far away, Bardas could still just about hear the clacking of hammers, faint, only just loud enough to be intrusive. ‘I’m ashamed to admit it,’ Bardas said, ‘but I’ve only got a very general idea of what you do here. I don’t know if it’s possible—’

Asman Ila wasn’t listening; he was looking at the door. ‘Mostly,’ he said, ‘you’re here to supervise, which is where your extensive experience in the trade will prove so useful; of course, I can’t so much as peen over a rivet or knock a nail in straight, and needless to say, they take advantage. Theft from the stores is our worst problem, followed by fluctuations in demand. There are times when I wonder whether the provincial office even knows the meaning of the term phased sourcing.’

Bardas shifted a little in his seat, which was rickety and appeared to have been made for a much smaller man, possibly even a child. He wondered if there would be any point in mentioning that he knew absolutely nothing about armoury work, and decided that there wouldn’t.

‘But,’ the Son of Heaven went on, ‘we cope. We’re fortunate in having so many highly skilled tradesmen here at Ap’ Calick; it means we have the flexibility. Are your quarters adequate for your needs? If you have any problems or queries, feel free to ask me, or the captain of operations. After all, there’s no point being uncomfortable unnecessarily.’

Bardas, who didn’t even know where his quarters were, nodded appreciatively. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and wondered what he could say to make the adjutant let him go. The stool was starting to get excruciatingly painful, and he had the feeling that a sudden movement would probably break it.

‘On the technical side,’ Asman Ila went on, carefully stifling a yawn, ‘you can always consult the foreman, Maj. I can’t say he’s entirely trustworthy, though I dare say he’s no worse than most, but he seems to know what he’s doing. He repaired a set of candlesticks for me; Riciden ware, missing the scrolled finials and the dished base. You can hardly tell the difference, except in a strong light. My great-grandfather took them from the library at Coil, so it’s hardly surprising they were damaged.’

A strong light
, Bardas reflected.
No danger of that here.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Will that be all?’

Asman Ila sat perfectly still for a few moments, staring at something above and just to the left of Bardas’ head. ‘And remember,’ he said suddenly, ‘my door is always open. Far better to deal with a problem when it arises than to try to hide it away until everything starts going wrong. After all,’ he added, ‘we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?

 

‘Maj,’ Bardas shouted for the third time. The man shook his head.

‘Never heard of him,’ he shouted back. ‘Why don’t you ask the foreman?’

Bardas shrugged, smiled and walked away.
Going to have to find some way of coping with this noise
, he thought, as he threaded his way between the benches, doing his best to stay out of the reach of the machines and the swinging hammers.
Anyway, it makes a change after the mines.

Eventually he found the foreman (who was called Haj, not Maj); he was curled up in a little niche in the gallery wall, fast asleep. Haj turned out to be a short, stocky man in his early sixties, with long, bony forearms and the largest hands Bardas had ever seen. His right shoulder was higher than his left, and his hair was bristly and white.

‘Bardas Loredan,’ Haj repeated. ‘The hero. Right, follow me.’

Haj moved quickly, taking lots of short steps; he ducked and threaded his way through the crowded workshop without apparently looking where he was going, leaving the more cautious Loredan far behind, so that twice Haj had to stop and wait for him to catch up. Like everybody Bardas had seen in the workshop, Haj wore a long leather apron that started under his chin and ended just above his ankles; he wore big military boots with steel caps over the toes, and the pocket of his apron was stuffed full of small tools and bunches of rag.